


The Magical Misadventures of Mephistopheles the Magnificent: The Show Must Blow Up

by Lt_Itzalova



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bursting (Non-Fatal), Farting, Inflation, Let's See What You're Made of Comedy Boy!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 05:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lt_Itzalova/pseuds/Lt_Itzalova
Summary: Mephistopheles and Jack are the sideshow starlets at the circus they work in: Jack's the strong silent type while Mephistopheles is an utter hothead, feisty and disliking non-believers so much so that when a "create infinite wind" spell goes awry he's not above getting creative in punishing his critics.





	The Magical Misadventures of Mephistopheles the Magnificent: The Show Must Blow Up

“And this, my good people, is the power of true magic!” a small young man called out over the sound of light applause from his crowd of three dozen. The masked boy outstretched his arms as he basked in the spotlight. Though his porcelain half-mask concealed some of his facial features the broad grin on his face practically gleamed against the only other light source in the show tent. He bowed, holding his hat, taking care not to tip it enough to allow anything hidden inside to spill out.

“Good evening, darlings! Who’s ready for exactly thirty minutes of magic? Sorry we sold you seats, you’re not going to be using them much, except for the edges at most.” the stage magician gave another wave to his paltry turnout, glancing backstage at the six and a half feet of muscle that was his assistant before beginning his act in earnest. “Tonight we take a look into the occult, through your collective third eye…” he produced a deck of cards from a sleeve, shuffling and flipping them about extravagantly. “Wonders the great Mephistophiles has sold his very soul to bring the art to you, like Promethean fire, you witness the result of effort and sacrifice unknown with powers out of this world!” he clasped his hands together a moment and opened them, a round of applause as a crow flew off from the space where his cards just were. It was supposed to be a dove, but the audience didn’t have to know that. 

The mage continued, rambling about magic and his own spendor, cycling through a few of his simpler parlor tricks to an only mildly amused audience. From a coat pocket he drew out a small vase-shaped vessel, showing the crowd it was a simple, empty container before placing a ping-pong ball atop it. He waved his free hand about to cast another one of his simpler spells, coaxing the natural thaumaturgical energies in the room to make a consistent source of wind inside the vessel to lift the ball into the air. 

“Now, you might question the power of true magic, but know that I can command the very elements!” he waved his hands around a second time, noticing that his attempts to summon a source of wind into a nearby vessel wasn’t working, his brow furrowing under his mask. “The… the fire, the earth and winds and rain!” he stammered, trying again and again to perform his trick and becoming increasingly tense before pocketing the item. He began pulling a series of tied-together handkerchiefs from his sleeve while explaining the history of stage magic but his stomach was in knots. Actually, a terribly unusual sensation for him, known to get flustered but never stage fright like this!

The minute magician Mephistophiles moved on with as much majesty as could be mustered. The feeling of unease wouldn’t pass, though, his body language becoming more stiff and restricted. That nervous feeling was becoming cramps, like his stomach was in ropes. “Y-you see, by exceeding your, uh, m-mind’s expectations…” his legs were shaking in his too-tight pants now and his lines coming off as strained, a few cards dropping from his sleeve as the show was quite clearly going off course and the wind taken from the little performer’s sails.

“S-so for the next portio- Ahem, for the next-” his knees pressed together as his momentary silence was more than enough to give center stage to a dense, sputtering fart that stole center stage from him, glittering orange fumes complimentary to his cobalt hair dissipating around the tent to the sound of laughter from his audience, finally reacting. Tears burned Mephistophiles’ cheeks as another roiling burst left his other set, amplified by his tendency to stuff his plush and ample backside into too-small slacks. “Um, r-right, so I need a volunteer-” sweat began forming on his skin as a visible bloat began forming against his usually slim and subtle middle. His half-mask could only cover up so much of his shame and trembling lips. 

Swallowing hard the mistakenly malodorous mage tried one more time to get the audience to focus on his performance and not his embarrassing backfired trick. “Okay! So for my next tr-” he stopped dead in his tracks, cut off by a voice from the audience. “How about for your next trick you make your balls drop?” without thinking he fired back “W-what!? I’m twenty-eight!” he pathetically whimpered, immediately answered by “What? Inches tall?” to yet another round of audience laughter. 

Mephistopheles couldn’t budge if he wanted to, teeth clenched together in a rage being the only thing stopping a passionate and undesirable outburst from both ends of the boy. The spotlights shifting from him to single out the heckling audience member. He was… actually not too bad looking, firmer and larger build than that of the small magician but by all measures conventionally attractive. With the spotlights off of him Mephistophiles grinned, a plot hatching in his head. If he could hold his temper...and bowels for just another minute or two, with just a little magic he might be able to save his show.

“You there, sir! Thank you for volunteering!” Mephistophiles called out, his voice filled with boisterous grandeur once again. With all eyes on him and a formal invitation the boy couldn’t so easily walk out, the spotlight keeping focused on him until he’d made it all the way onto the stage to join the magician. “Lovely. Jack, to me!” Mephistophiles snapped, his tall assistant walking out from the stage curtains. A towering beast of a woman who’s hard, scarred form was only offset by her luxurious gold mane, plush chest and the set of bunny ears completing her typical bunny suit. Despite her cold gaze the guest didn’t seem phased. “What, you called me up here so your girlfriend could beat me up?”

Something snapped in Mephistophiles’ psyche, though his temper was already famously the shortest thing about him. His little gloved hand snapped repeatedly and the towering woman kneeled then bent over fully, allowing him to use his assistant as a stepstool, the effect enough to give him a few inches of height over his guest, just enough to really lean into him. He seethed in a lowered voice and through his teeth, only thinking it was quiet enough to keep his audience from hearing. “Listen h-here, you piss-chugging cretin! Y-you livestock-sodomizing troglodyte! You don’t come into MY house and insult MY work in front of MY audience and you most of all don’t talk bad about MY assistant! Do you have any idea how hard she works?!” 

Despite the severity of the petite performer his guest didn’t seem particularly phased, or even paying attention for most of the ranting. He merely looked down at the dead stare from the woman hunched over to give Mephisto a boost in height and ego and said “All I know is she has a load capacity of around seventy five pounds or more. But yanno, if you work her so hard I can take her out to dinner while you finish up h-”

A gentleman’s callout, a firm slap across the face with a removed glove. Mephistopheles had managed to silence his heckler for a moment but mostly his limp-wristed smack left the other boy bemused and aware of how tenderly maintained and manicured the magicians hands were as he refitted his glove over his hand. “Enough! I’ve decided for you my most severe retaliation, sir!” he seemed on the verge of tears, a floorboard-rattling powerful blast of fumes issuing off behind him only reinforcing his disposition. “You don’t gotta eject me, if you’re going to keep doing that I’ll just go.” the other boy positively refused to relent.

Mephistophiles made a quick series of gestures with both hands, holding his pose as he finished. “Actually, we’ll just have you wait on the back of the stage for now.” he took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Oh, geez, having to stand behind you for another twenty minutes? That IS punishment!” one more round of laughter from the audience as Mephistopheles stepped from his assistant and both she and their guest walked to watch the remainder of the show from the back of the set, their MVP riding the high of getting such a rise from Mephistopheles he didn’t even notice the terribly suspect way their stomachs gurgled in unison. 

The back of the stage was hardly a better viewpoint, though it spared one from having to be shouted at by Mephistopheles it also meant there wasn’t a whole lot to do other than stare at his remarkably pronounced butt every time he bent or swiveled on stage. Speaking of, being downwind of the windy warlock wasn’t at all woeful. Whatever was assailing the magician seemed to have cleared up, though cruel irony found the MVP suffering a familiar feeling. Damn cheap carnie food, he knew he shouldn’t have trusted anything that sketchy looking clown would push down her throat. Though as clearly full as his bowels felt he was also standing next to a lady, a hulking, bunny suit-wearing, unspeaking monster of a lady who should be in the WNBA, but a lady nonetheless. 

Now it was he who was sweating, seeing the minute magician twirling and dancing around, flinging small birds and playing cards with finesse and light-footed grace only added insult to injury. It was hardly five minutes in but he was going to have to cut his losses, among other things. He took his attention off of the show for a minute, trying to quietly loose the tension plauging his innards, no such luck. Then relaxing a bit more, still nothing. He was soon actively pushing slightly and still no release came. This was somewhere between concerning and relieving, whatever was stuck in his guts he could deal with after this lame show and it wasn’t going to come out too easily, on the other hand it felt increasingly pressing a need, pressing against his anal opening, specifically. 

Only a few more minutes had to pass before he was really feeling like a captive audience. His shirt was having trouble containing the visible distension of his middle, a mild soreness developing in his stomach. He shot occasional glances over to the burly assistant but it seemed not once did she break her gaze from the show, dedicated as she was he didn’t wanna stare, more for fear of his increasing level of gastrointestinal distress being discovered than anything.

Though Mephistophiles was at least putting on enough of a show to keep anyone from noticing his shirt gradually riding up over his middle the honored guest could only wish he could be a little more oblivious to it. Straining against his clothes, bulging out a little further every second and quaking ominously almost constantly it was far too much for him to ignore. He looked like he’d swallowed a bowling ball and worse still, was about to swallow his pride. 

“Hey, uh, h-hey!” Mephistophiles heard call out from behind him. He had to turn slowly due to balancing on a moving bike with four sets of spinning plates being kept aloft. “Hm? What is it now? Think you can do better?” he sneered, pretending not to notice the abdominal bulge his heckler was sporting. “Um, no, I gotta actually, uh, my girlfriend called and I-” Mephistopheles laughed, hopping down as his props fell to the floor and shattered into firework-like sparks and leaving no remains. He produced a wand from his sleeve, prodding the blunt end to his guest’s abdomen. “Ah-ha-ha-haaa! I think I know precisely what it is! Yeah, don’t eat anything Basil gives ya, she’s a good cook but smart enough to save the good stuff for herself. Fortunately we’ve got a remedy for this!”

There was a collective gasp as the audience was shown how quickly and dramatically hardly ten minutes had affected the once-smug guest’s body. It seemed like by the second his gut was jostling and straining ever further outwards, now taking up thrice the physical depth his body would usually take. His face was a deep red, perhaps from the embarrassment but definitely from the strain of what his overinflated insides were suffering, gas being shunted through internal chambers as more and more spots were forced to expand to cope. He was so mortified he didn’t even notice Mephistophiles cock a hip to the side, release a satisfied sigh and straighten up right as his distended belly groaned and surged in size once more.

“Now, some very careful and expert acupressure should be all you need, luckily my surgical precision is employed for more than just knife throwing! We usually use a square cabinet but, hm, I think I’ve got a more suitable vessel for one of your unique...stature.” Mephistophiles clapped his hands as he and his assistant took a step back, a large barrel and a chest falling from above, the former landing directly on their captive. The barrel seemed to be fully binding his limbs while leaving only his head and neck visible at the top.

“H-how did you get me into this? This doesn’t make any sense!” the stage guest rocked back and forth in futility. Mephistophiles approached him while his assistant set to opening the chest. He got on his toes, cupping his hand, pretending to deliver a secret while speaking loud enough for his entire audience to hear. “Wanna know how? It’s magic!” the boy cackled, reaching a hand out behind him, a large staff placed in his hand. “Wha, Jack, come on, honey, we can handle each other’s rods after the show!” Mephistophiles threw his voice to make it sound like at least someone was laughing in the crowd as his bunnysuited assistant rolled her eyes and instead gave him a rather long and intimidating needle of several feet. “Fantastic, now, don’t move and this won’t hurt a bit!” 

With only the smallest amount of room to squirm and struggle in his bindings it was hard not to obey that command, though as the needle slid through the barrel’s wooden slats, gliding against the skin on his back and only just barely missing him it was difficult to keep still. The first needle poked slightly from the other end of the barrel before Mephistopheles began with another, causing his guest to contort himself a bit further. At last the audience was genuinely enthralled with gasps and “Oohs” following every new puncturing object that was added, each one forcing his guest to shift and try not to get prodded, especially in his sensitive, bloated gut, leaving less and less room to even struggle as the barrel holding him began to appear more like a pincushion.

As if this weren’t enough the flow of pressure didn’t recede in the slightest, his gut pressing out in all directions against the cold metal, his flesh feeling oh so tender against them. The gas inside him had nowhere left to go, getting more and more compressed, boiling his insides as they strained to keep equilibrium. “Look, w-whatever, you win, just l-HUAARRRP” the guest blushed deeply, the gases in his truly body desperate for a way out, it seemed. Mephistophiles looked up from his work. “Ah, sorry, I didn’t get that, could you repeat that?” He grinned sadistically and bore down on his bowels at once. “I just sai-HRRAAAAP” once again cut of by the most disgusting tasting belch he’d ever had the displeasure of feeling escape his throat. “Hm, one more time for the audience too, maybe?” Mephistophiles mused, the guest trying a final time but only managing to open his lips and spray out glittery orange gases for his troubles, more than enough motivation to keep his lips firmly shut.

Mephistophiles didn’t count himself a sadist or anything but oh, the look of suffering as the person who was only minutes ago mocking his revered and practiced art, contracted, contorted and at the mercy of his work. The slats in the barrel were widening, as its captive must have been as well, every bit of wind that should have escaped the stage magician instead ending up pumped directly into the gut of his once-vocal critic, with hardly anywhere to go, though it seemed a backdraft seeped up his nostrils now as his cheeks bulged. 

The pressure seemed to be getting intense, a wicked smile on Mephistophiles’ face as a loud metallic “Ping!” sounded off one of the rings on the barrel snapping as the item’s physical integrity became forfeit to tons upon tons of forcibly backed-up gaseous pressure. He and his assistant backed off, seeing the boards bend and needles clattering to the ground. “A big round of applause for our lovely guest here today, yes, darlings?” Mephistophiles called out before using his arms to shield himself, just in time, too, the clapping from the audience not enough to mask the sound of another metal band snapping and the barrel splintering apart in a shower of debris.

As the dust cleared there was another collective gasp, in the place of the shattered barrel was their guest, just distinctly less so like before. His body filled out in all directions considerably to the point of which it was clear why he didn’t fit in his previous confines. The other two slowly approached him. “Careful now, Jack, you put out your cigarette beforehand, right? This is more than a slight fire hazard.” Mephistophiles chuckled, getting right up close and burying a finger in his guest’s side, letting it sink in against the taut surface and causing enough discomfort for him to try and open his mouth to speak, a glittering cloud propelled on a wet belch taking its place.

“Eugh, geez, he’s getting all backed up, well, that’s fine, just means he can’t take much more and we can finish this.” Mephistophiles bent over, baring down just a bit to keep the pressure on his intestines and pumping the other boy with his supernatural gases. The audience was still stirred by the bizarre turn the show had taken, a lull of chatter coming from them as the stage magician mused over his guest. He was forced to sit by the dominating sheer mass of his abdomen, back arched to better accommodate it and face largely obscured from the bulge of his stomach overtaking that space. Veins pulsed along his swollen orb of a stomach, pulsing larger and angrier with each pump of gases into his system.

“Come on, then, Jack, let’s finish this up and give these people a finale proper!” with that, the guest was hefted up. Even without the stuffing of lighter-than-air gases the burly assistant seemed plenty able to lift him, using only three fingers to suspend him over her head. He couldn’t tell what was worse, though, his gravid gut being displayed to a shocked crowd of onlookers or the fact that those three fingers pressing into him made it clear how far they were sinking in and just how much pressure his system was under. Mephistophiles on the other hand was fully composed by now, back to his bravado and showmanship as he clapped his hands together for the audience’s attention.

“Well, sealed off and, ahem, elastic as you may be, every substance has limits, magical or otherwise.” He kept a straight face even while his insides were working hard to bare down, compress and pump through the myriad gases in his system. He looked up, the taut skin of his victim beginning to stretch quite so that it was becoming transparent, allowing the swirling nebula of glittering light and warm colors to show through. “W-wAIIUURP, y-you wouldn’t tr-” his guest tried to speak out through a series of glittering burps but produced little more than amusement to the onlookers, and most of all, Mephistophiles. “Me? Oh, I’m not doing anything, it’s just simple physics, well, physics and a little help from magic!” he tossed a few handfuls of glitter as he paced in front of his assistant and the inhumanly massive orb she was now supporting over her head, more resembling a weather balloon than a person now.

“We hope you’ve enjoyed this evening with me and my lovely assistant.” he continued walking, the motion allowing him to keep a careful, steady stream of gas pumping through his system and into the creaking orb above him. “Remember who showed you this, of course. The prodigy of prestidigitation, the intellect of illusion…” he was working his stomach muscles more than his legs by now, it burned his guts but a show wasn’t a show without a big finish! “The maestro of magic, mundane, mystical and medicinal, the meticulously masterful magician Mephistophiles!” he snapped his fingers and clenched so hard he thought he’d hurt himself. His eyes scanned upwards as a thundering, roaring boom sounded off amidst the tent, the canvass holding it together flapping and a few supporting poles even falling over as a sunset of vibrant, sparkling colors filled the tent. Mephistophiles was self-assured he’d blown the mind of every wide-eyed and shocked audience member there, and then at least one other thing. “No refunds, adieu!”

It wasn’t until some hours later that he came to. It was dark, and kind of cold. It seemed like he was in a box of wood, or so he thought, a beam of light flashing into his eyes, requiring his eyes adjust before he could realize the face of that psychopath magician’s burly thug. “W-wait, you’re… I-I’m, I’m still alive!?” he shouted. Trying to sit up but too physically drained to seem to move his body properly. Instead she scooped him up and slung him over her shoulder, the process giving him a moment to take in his surroundings: it was the same stage as before, albeit with the cold and darkness of night, and a trap door he’d just been pulled from that he definitely didn’t see in his time up on the stage.

“Alive and perfectly intact, I can’t kill people without them signing a waiver, actually!” the magician’s familiar voice chimed in, his face beaming as he adjusted his felt gloves and brushed his hair aside. “We just had to keep you down there for the rest of the night’s shows but don’t you worry, everything’s fine and taken care of. It’ll just be an hour or two before you should drive or anything. The explanation didn’t fully make sense to him and there was definitely hard feelings over whatever the hell had gone down just hours ago but he was smart enough to not anger the magician a second time. “Oh, thank God, well, if you could just put me down the-” “Ah-ah-ah-ahh! I remember you promised Jack a romantic wine and dine and Basil told me some great places that’ll be open a few hours more. Naturally I’ve got to go with her to make sure you don’t try taking advantage of a sweet young thing like herself. Now, let’s not waste time, I booked us three just the most lovely five-star, shiah-kazing! We’re off!” the two, MPV in tow, headed out of the tent, ignoring the low groan that was coming from either his throat or colon.


End file.
